


Returning Home

by Phoenixflames12



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: e06 Retribution, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 04:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17780207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: March 1802In the aftermath of the trial, a battered Horatio Hornblower brings his oldest friend back to England, unaware that for Archie there are ghosts to encounter even closer to home.





	Returning Home

**Author's Note:**

> I have loved the Hornblower films and Horatio and Archie's friendship for about five years now and am only now beginning to write fic for them. If anything is rusty, please don't hesitate to let me know.

_March 1802_

The chill of London’s fog  that is lifting itself lazily off the river draws deep in the carriage walls, burrowing itself under the folds of Horatio’s cloak and plunging itself into the very marrow of his bones. Archie’s head is pillowed in his lap, the weight of his breathing coming out in shallow, laboured gasps as his lungs struggle against the knitting together of blood and skin and muscle. Very occasionally, he twitches, the mop of dirty blond hair shifting against Horatio’s knee, the ghosts of old fits, old memories swimming back to plague him.

 

Memories of Simpson’s gloating face watching him take a beating for sleeping on watch aboard the _Justinian_ and Sawyer’s manic eyes glittering in the darkness of the _Renown’s_ lower gun deck. Memories of the shameful agony of the boatswain’s rattan slicing against the old fabric of his breeches, the world wobbling back into focus as Clayton’s kindly eyes held his, holding his arm and directing him to some mundane task to keep his mind away from the pain. He had always there to help had Clayton but had never had the mind to speak up against any of the injustice that he had witnessed.

 

Memories of Kingston and El Ferro that can never be revisited aloud but are played instead over and over again in his friends’ dreams.

 

‘It’s all right Archie,’ Horatio hears himself murmur, the words billowing out in a breath of cold air as he bends his head against the crown of his friends’ skull. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe.’

 

‘Am I?’

 

Archie stirs at his touch, grey blue eyes cracking open above a pained, brittle smile, a long fingered hand that is calloused from years of line reaching up to grip Horatio’s. His voice is barely above a whisper and it is all Horatio can do to nod, hoping that the prognosis that Doctor Clive had given his friend before they had left Kingston, will not prove true.

 

‘ _He needs to return to England. You both do. But whether he will survive the journey is another matter. Two weeks at sea in his condition? I don’t like it, Mr Hornblower.’_

_And Horatio had drawn himself up to his full height, watching as the older doctor rested the back of his hand against Archie’s forehead, grey eyes dark and distant. ‘The fever is lessening, but he will still be very weak when you weigh anchor. You’ll need to make yourself known to the ship’s surgeon as soon as you board.’_

 

That had been two weeks ago and now, they are turning up the river, towards Archie’s parents’ London house. Outside the carriage window, the rambling turnpike roads with their drenched tapestry of green and brown and gold farmland fringed with the first spikes of frost that have followed them as the carriage has made its way further in land from Plymouth is slowly transforming itself into the sprawling streets of Greenwich.

 

He can smell the river.

 

It rises like a great miasma through the streets, the sharp tang of salt mingled with dark undercurrents of mud and sewage and the creak of old wood, calling them both to ships and men that they cannot see, the cries of the hawkers and street vendors ringing in the carriages’ wake.

 

Archie shifts his position again, swallowing audibly as the carriage hits another hole in the road.

 

‘Horatio?’

 

His voice is slowly growing stronger, grimacing as the carriage jolts again, the grip that reaches for his hand slowly returning to full strength.

 

‘What is it, old friend?’

 

‘When we get there, you… You must promise to be kind to my parents and sisters.’

 

His gaze is deep and troubled, and Horatio feels his heart crack at the sight of it. He knows very little about Archie’s personal life, only that he had been taken down to Plymouth by a kindly uncle at the age of twelve with a letter of service tucked into the pocket of his coat to request a berth as a midshipman on the _Justinian_.

 

‘Of course I will. Why did you think that you even had to ask?’

 

The question is sharper than Horatio intended, his pride smarting slightly from Archie’s request.

 

‘I know that.’ Archie’s smile is brittle, but it holds and for that Horatio is grateful. ‘It’s just… It’s hard to explain and after my brother was killed in action against the French, they turned somewhat against the navy and what it stands for, what the duty stands for. They haven’t seen me for such a long time and my sisters… Well, Eliza and Mary will remember me, but little Amelia, I don’t think…’

 

He pauses, a thick lump of a sob catching in his throat and instinctively Horatio lays a hand on his shoulder, hoping that the gesture will speak of comfort for the opening of old wounds. Being an only child, he has never known anything like that bone deep sibling bond until he had met Kennedy and Bush and even then, their comradery had been born out of necessity to stick together under the manic captaincy of Captain Sawyer and all that followed it more than anything else.

 

‘Why don’t you tell me about them, then?’ He pitches the question carefully, trying to distract himself. ‘Your sisters? It’ll make it so much easier for me to know about them before I meet them.’

 

* * *

 

The carriage rumbles up a gravel drive just off Regent’s Park as the weak winter sun has struggled out from behind a cloud into its’ zenith.

 

The house is yellow sandstone, surrounded the skeleton branches of an elm copse that Horatio supposes would look stunning in the summer light. The cries and rumbles of the city do not seem to matter here, fading out on the hush of the north easterly wind.

 

Archie sits pale and tall beside Horatio; his gaze turned towards the window and the rise and fall of a manicured green lawn dusted with a carpet of fallen autumn leaves which slopes down to a pond shrouded by a fringe of leafless silver birches.

 

‘I used to hate it here,’ Horatio hears Archie murmur, the words so quiet that it is almost as if he hasn’t spoken at all. ‘At times it was only Eliza’s laugh that would make it bearable. As often as I could, I’d try to escape my masters and spend halcyon summer days lounging about backstage at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, but now…’

 

The words are laced with such internal pain that instinctively Horatio reaches out a hand to lay it across his friends’, watching a small smile flicker across his lips.

 

Archie pauses to draw breath, but whatever he is going to say next is drowned out by the crash of a door banging open and the joyous welcoming bark of a brindled lurcher and a shout from a tall girl with blonde ringlets in a light blue dress hastily wrapping a grey shawl about her shoulders as she hurries across the gravel to meet them.

 

‘Archie! Archie, why did you not write and tell us you were coming?’

 

As she draws closer, Horatio sees that she must be one of Archie’s sisters. They share the same high forehead, the same corn blonde hair, the same long nose- hers splattered becomingly with freckles and the same bright, blue-grey eyes that he can never tire of.

 

‘Eliza! I didn’t…’

 

Horatio cannot help but smile as he watches his friend being pulled into a wordless embrace, wincing audibly as the bandages shifted under his shirt, the lurcher gambolling joyfully at his feet.

 

‘When the dispatches said that you’d been wounded, _and_ court marshalled… Well…’

 

‘You didn’t tell Mother Eliza, did you?’

 

Archie draws her out of the embrace, his pale face blanched white, old ghosts that Horatio is not privy to flickering deep in his gaze.

 

She laughs a little breathlessly at that and shakes her head, reaching on tip-toe to press a soft kiss deep in the crown of her brothers’ curls, eyes widening over the top of Archie’s head as she takes in Horatio for the first time. She looks startlingly beautiful in the crisp March light and Horatio feels the tug of a smile at his lips and nods, not wanting to distract her from the moment with her brother.

 

‘No, I didn’t, but Father knows, though he’s been called away to work late and won’t be back until next week. Why don’t you come inside? It’s perishing out here,’ shivering emphatically, she draws her shawl tighter about her shoulders, clicking her tongue to the dog who is nosing hopefully at Horatio’s shoe buckles.

 

Just then, there is a scuffle at the door and a middle-aged footman in faded brown livery steps out smartly, moving without being told to collect the small portmanteaux that count for Horatio and Archie’s luggage. Catching sight of Archie, he touches his forelock, a small smile dancing in his dark eyes.

 

‘It’s good to see you home safe, sir,’ the older man murmurs and Archie nods a little stiffly, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes flickering across his lips.

 

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ Eliza smiles quickly, laying a hand on her brothers’ shoulder and nodding to the footman. ‘Davidson, I think that Archie’s old room’s been made up, and the blue guest room overlooking the lake might do for-‘

 

She pauses here, sending Horatio an apologetic glance.

 

‘Hornblower at your service, Miss Kennedy. Horatio Hornblower.’

 

‘Yes,’ she murmurs, quickly glancing down at her hands and back up again, eyes shining with eagerness. ‘But you must call me Eliza, please. Miss Kennedy sounds so formal. Archie’s said so much about you in his letters and you can tell us all about your adventures inside. The fire’s been lit in the parlour and I think that tea will be served shortly. Anywhere will be warmer than this.’

 

* * *

 

 ‘Elizabeth, is that you?’

 

A commanding female voice rings down the narrow passageway that leads off the main entrance hall.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Horatio sees Davidson and a maid in dark livery disappear up a flight of stairs with the luggage and into the unknown passageways of the upper floors.

 

‘It is, Mother! Archie’s home and he’s brought a friend, a Horatio Hornblower!’

 

Turning, Horatio is just in time to see Eliza disappear through a door and an older woman who can only be their hostess, appear.

 

Her blonde hair is faded to silver in places, swept off the same high cheekbones that he sees every day in Archie’s face, her blue-grey gaze direct and questioning as she takes in her visitors.

 

‘Horatio Hornblower, ma’am,’ Horatio murmurs and bows low, watching Archie’s fingers twitch convulsively in their hold behind his back.

 

‘Catherine Kennedy,’ her smile is thin lipped as she nods to him before turning her gaze to her son, eyes softening as she looks him up and down.

 

‘Archie,’ his name is a murmur on her lips and a small smile cracks against Archie’s mouth as he accepts her embrace and yet unable to supress a groan as the wound snags under his bandages.

 

‘What is it, Archie?’

 

From her perch on the window seat facing the fire, Eliza half rises in alarm, eyes dancing in question from Horatio to Archie and back again and instinctively Horatio moves forward, ready to hold his friend should he stumble. Out of the corner of his eye, he can just make out a portrait of a young man in the uniform of a commissioned second lieutenant in the middle of the carved Oak mantlepiece above the fireplace.

 

Archie’s brother,no doubt.

 

‘It’s… It’s nothing Mother, truly. Just an old war wound that’s taken its time to heal, that’s all.’ He grimaces at that, voice is thin with pain, the look in his eyes shuttered and fathomless. Without knowing why he’s doing it and only that it has to be done. Horatio lays a hand on his friend’s shoulder, hoping that the gesture may speak of some comfort. Mrs Kennedy draws back, her face blanched white, wordlessly accepting Lizzie’s arm to guide her to a chair.

 

‘Archie?’

 

His friend comes back to himself slowly, a shattered breath pulsing through his lungs, as he turns wide, panicked eyes to face him.

 

‘I…’

 

Before he can say anything more, there is a scuffle at the door and two girls with their blonde hair loose about their shoulders come tumbling into the room, skidding to a stop at the sight of their Mother and elder sister. Like Archie and Eliza, they share the same dirty blonde hair and sharp, blue eyes which are caught between wonder and uncertainty at the new arrivals.  

 

‘Mary, what have I told you about running through the house? And with guests present! What sort of example do you think you are setting to your sister, hm?’

 

Mrs Kennedy’s voice is sharp with anger and Horatio feels Archie stiffen beside him, barely controlled rage simmering under his skin.

 

‘They meant no harm by it, Mother.’ Archie’s voice is sharp, but softens as the older girl shrinks back, gripping her younger sister’s shoulders, her eyes wide as she watches him move slowly across the room, eyes fixed on the two girls.

 

‘D’you remember me, Mary? Amelia?’

 

The older girl pauses for a moment, giving him a once over before nodding tentatively, her hands still fixed on her little sisters’ shoulders as Archie kneels beside them both. Reaching out to lay a hand on the older girls’ shoulder, he cracks a small smile for his youngest sister who turns away to the safety of her Mary’s skirts.

 

‘You went away… I was only little, but I watched from the nursery window when Uncle Johnathan came in his carriage an’ Mother and Father said that you’d be back, but you…’

 

‘I know,’ Horatio hears Archie murmur in reply, the words thick in his throat as he reaches up to tuck an escaped curl back behind his sisters’ ear and quirks a smile for little Amelia. ‘I know, Mary, and I’m sorry for that, but I will be home for a little while now and…’

 

‘D’ you promise?’

 

Her eyes are as round as saucers and Horatio sees his friend’s lip tremble just for a moment before he bites down on the sob, determined for it not to be his undoing.

 

Slowly, he raises the little girl’s hand to his lips, to kiss her hand which chokes out a watery giggle from her and for little Amelia to turn wide, welling eyes to him and blink owlishly.

 

_Dear God, Archie!_

‘Of course I do, little ones,’ he murmurs, turning on his haunches to Horatio who can do nothing but nod. ‘Of course I do.’

 

* * *

 

Archie dreams that night.

 

Horatio doesn’t know what the dreams contain, but he as he lies awake in the blue room, watching the reflection of the moonlight glimmer off the ceiling, he hears the scuffle and scrape of a bed and the howl of muffled cries falling dead into the creaks and groans of the sleeping house.

 

Shrugging his lieutenant’s coat on over his nightshirt and wincing as the bare soles of his feet catch the chill of the floorboards, he makes his way down the passageway to Archie’s chamber.

 

The stub of the candle that is still left to him throws strange shadows against the walls as he moves slowly through the slumbering house, watching its’ light throw up generation after generation of shadowy Kennedy’s immortalised forever in their gilded frames. 

 

‘Archie?’

 

The creak of his friend’s bedroom door sounds impossibly loud in the silence, his curtains blown apart by cold gusts of wind rippling over the pond.

 

The room is sparse of possessions, but above the bed, Horatio can make out a complete set of Shakespeare’s works, their gold titles dancing in the intermittent light.

 

His friends’ bed is a puddle of pulled apart bedsheets, Archie’s head moving restlessly across the pillow, his shaking body curled into a foetal position, clenched fists shaking uncontrollably under the coverlet.

 

‘Archie! Archie, it’s me. Horatio. It’s just a dream.’ In one stride Horatio has made it to the bed and laid his candle on the wooden side table. Slowly, he eases himself onto the mattress as he reaches out a tentative hand to hold his friends’ shoulder still.

 

‘It’s just a dream, old friend,’ he murmurs, reaching up to brush a sweaty curl back behind Archie’s ear, biting his lip as his friend flinches from his touch.

 

‘It’s just a dream,’ Horatio repeats, letting his hand rest flat against Archie’s shoulder. ‘You’re home, nothing can hurt you here.’

 

‘Can’t it?’

 

Glazed blue eyes blink up at him, their pupils soulless and unseeing and with a shock, Horatio understands.

 

Understands that part of his friend is still locked away in the jail cell at El Ferro, the courthouse in Kingston, the hold of the _Renown,_ the long-ago midshipman’s berths on the _Justinian_ and can never be recovered, no matter how hard he tries. 

Archie breathes out shakily, struggling into a sitting position.

 

‘I…’ He stops and tries again, gaze pulled away into the depths of his own pain in a way that Horatio wishes he could prevent.

 

‘I keep reliving it. All of it. The… The hold, the _Papiliion_ and then… And then El Ferro…The court house… Shadowed corners in the midshipman’s berths…  Clayton… Sawyer… Simpson… Bush….  Wellard…You…’

 

His voice cracks on the last word and Horatio pulls him close, the weight of Archie’s head tucked deep into his shoulder blade.

 

‘You don’t need to tell me more,’ he murmurs, listening to the ragged pulse of Archie’s breathing slowly begin to even out as the nightmare recedes, the names and faces of the dead and lost sloping away into the darkness.

 

‘Don’t I?’

 

Archie’s question is thick and breathless, but Horatio hears it.

 

‘No, you don’t. I was there for most of it, remember and I will not let you live your ghosts alone, Archie. D’you hear me? I would never do that to you.’

 

‘Dear Horatio,’ Archie murmurs, voice thick with impending sleep and tinged with pain, making Horatio hold him closer, remembering another time, another embrace, the salt stained air thick with the scent of blood and gunpowder and is thankful beyond measure that they have come through it.

 

They remain there for a long while until there is a timid knock at the door and Eliza's pale face peers round the door, eyes widening at the sight of Archie asleep in his friend’s arms. 

 

‘He’ll be all right,’ Horatio murmurs to her unasked question as he eases her brothers’ weight onto the mattress and pulling the coverlet straight.

 

She nods quickly, though he can see that she doesn’t truly believe him, moving silently into the room to kneel at the other side of the bed, her gaze soft with love and worry.

 

‘Oh Archie,’ Horatio hears her murmur, watching a long-fingered hand reach up to brush an escaped curl out of her brothers’ eyes, her free hand trailing his nightshirt, fingers running lightly over the ridges of the bandages that swarth his chest.

 

‘It was another fit, wasn’t it? He used to have them when we were little children, but I thought that going away to sea…’

 

Her question is as direct as her gaze, but Horatio finds that he cannot answer her.

 

Cannot bear to mar her happiness at having her brother home with tales of the moments that he had witnessed between Jack Simpson and her brother aboard the _Justinian_.

 

Instead, he nods quietly, turning back to the figure in the bed, who is stirring at the sound of their quiet conversation.

 

‘Eliza? What are you doing here? You should be abed, surely?’

 

Wide, blue eyes flick blearily from face to face and Eliza smiles softly down at him.

 

‘I couldn’t sleep. I had to see you and make sure that you weren’t some part of my imagination, but now that Horatio’s with you, I think…’

 

She pauses here, biting her lip and Archie sleepily nods his thanks.

 

‘You’ll take care of him?’

 

Eliza’s eyes hold Horatio’s as she rises from the bed, her gaze fixed on them both.

 

‘Of course,’ he murmurs in reply, aware that the question is not just addressed to him.

 

‘Always,’ murmurs Archie, already half asleep.

 

She nods and slips from the room, her fingers lingering lightly on the doorframe as she goes.

 

Horatio watches her leave, before turning back to the bed.

 

‘Will you be all right in here?’

 

Archie chuckles drowsily, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

‘Of course, old friend. Thank you.’

 

Even so, Horatio spends that night asleep in the chair beside Archie’s bedside, one hand clasped loosely in that of his oldest, dearest friend, grateful that Fate has been cheated once again and the sands of time have not run dry on their adventures together.

 

* * *

_**Fin**_  

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! 
> 
> Much love and enjoy x


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